"War does not determine who is right - only who is left."
-Bertrand Russell
There are limits to what a man can take, Tommy knew that. Whether it was morally or somewhere deep in the mind there was a line constantly being pressed on by life, begging a person to step over it. He had seen it in the tunnels, many men crossed over it and became something new, something a little less human. It was hard to go back to being just a man after that. So he became something else entirely. Something unfeeling, incapable of forming attachments outside of his family and the men who leapt at him through his walls in the pale moonlight. He should have never allowed Freya into the collection of sin he maintained in this life, but she was here now, and as he had stood there staring at the large oaf of a man placing his hands all over her body he had recoiled from the sharp pangs of jealousy that flooded through him. His body was in turmoil, his soul and flesh warring with one another. He could neither stand to see the sight or look away. Instead he smoked, thankful to have something to have some sort of distraction, even if it were purely physical.
When she had stabbed him it was visceral rage, he could see it written all over her skin as though God himself had stamped it upon her. There was something there, under the skin and in the deep parts of her mind that caused that. Something dark, the same sort of darkness Tommy had bred into himself in the tunnels- a feral desire for survival and more. But when her eyes met his for the smallest moment there had been something else there, a need to protect and be protected. It called to him, her soul flickering out and begging to meet his. Is this what people called love? Thomas Shelby held very little dear to him, but this small girl with her fortress of self-destruction was quickly finding her way into his defenses, daring him to make her leave.
He stared at her across the bar through drunken eyes. It was a night for celebrations and the pub was loud with the sounds of laughter and song, these moments were supposed to be when he let his guard down and enjoyed the rewards from his strife. Instead he played the day over and over in his mind. From John's arm fingers wrapped up in Freya's, to the dress she wore, to all the other moments, he was entranced. Not even Grace's presence next to him was enough to drag his attention away. Her fingers were lightly touching the arm of his brother, a laugh falling from her as though she had never killed a man. A lesser man would be frightened of her. But he was not a lesser man, and nothing scared him. He would not step in the way of John's happiness, nor did he have a right to with Grace on his arm. And John did look happy. He wanted the best for his brothers, as foolish and destructive as they could be. The empire they were building was not made upon his back alone. They were a family in work and life, and through the bickering he still loved them deep down.
"You know, a girl might get jealous lookin' at you staring at another," Grace spoke softly to him. He could hear the subtle tones in her voice begging for his attention. Anything to hold on to what they had. She searched his eyes every night looking for the magic they used to have. But it was fading with each day that went by as he retreated from her. At one point Tommy would've left it all behind for Grace, uncaring if the entire world burned down around him. Now, he was not so sure.
Maybe it was the drink, but for a moment he was sure that Freya had looked at him, her eyes begging for him to come to her, rescue her, love her. Instead, he closed his eyes, allowing the drink in his hand to take him somewhere far away.
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John was drunk, drunker than Freya had ever seen him. His words slurred and he smiled at Freya without focus several times. She knew it would not be long until he drifted off into sleep, left by the others to sleep it off and depart in the early morning hours. There was something deeply innocent looking about him when he was drunk. About all the Shelby men, actually. It was not often she saw anyone as bad as this, but when they did, she loved being there. They dropped their walls and for a second she felt like she knew the men behind the Shelby name, not just the business.
"You're beautiful," John whispered, leaning into her once more. He had told her many times already, but each time brought a warmth to her. Lee had only called her beautiful when he wanted her to fulfill wifely duties, something she was not particularly fond of. He was too busy, too brutish. He never gave her tenderness in the bedroom or anywhere else, and he certainly never called her beautiful where a room full of people could hear. She wondered if he would be the same sober or if he would be afraid to say it, afraid to expose a weakness to anyone. She was learning quickly there were enemies everywhere, whether they wore the same title as you or not.
She did not know if Tommy had told John about what happened in the stables, or if he would. She hoped not, it was not something she needed people knowing about. She wanted to carry the blood on her hands silently. There was no one man in the building who had clean hands, and she was happy for that. None could judge her, not that she cared. He had gotten what he deserved, but she wondered what John would have done if he had seen her instead of Tommy. Tommy with his calculating eyes and cold body language. She glanced at him, quickly, for she did not want Grace to see her and marveled at him. His facial features were beautiful, and she found herself mentally picturing herself tracing his cheeks, planting small kisses as her fingers trailed on down his body. The attraction was there from the start, she knew that now. The very first night when she had stood out in front of her house and he had asked if she was a whore and fear had rooted her to the ground- it had started then. He lit a fire in the dark parts of herself and fanned the flames, daring her to burn things. Be destructive he seemed to whisper to her. She wanted to be. She wanted to be wild and out of control like the girls she would see with their bobbed hair and jeweled and draped dresses. She wanted something she did not think she could ever have, but there was something in him that told her to have it all. Nothing could stop her anymore. She was no longer caged.
"You want to go back to yours?" John's mumbled voice snapped her from fantasy in her mind and she smiled at him but lightly shook her head. He was far too drunk to go anywhere, and besides, she was tired.
"Another time," She promised him. The answer seemed to please him and he kissed her suddenly. It was not like her early morning kisses, this was sloppy and awful, but she could tell it came from a good place so she allowed it. "I think I am going home now," She said when he finally backed away. He did not say anything, simply nodded and laid his head down on the bar. John Shelby was done for the night. She pushed her glass back further on the bar and made her way towards the door.
She had not realized just how terribly late it was. The moon was full and bright. Her soul felt lighter somehow tonight. It should feel terribly burdened, but she could not find it in herself to pity her victim. Men who took freedoms with women who did not wish for it held no warm part of her heart.
She was halfway home when she became acutely aware of the footsteps behind her. Normally she would've picked up on them sooner but the alcohol had caused a slight stupor in her mind. "That you Tommy?" She called out, knowing Tommy would be the only one sober enough to walk with that steadiness. When there was no answer she stopped walking and turned around, ready to confront him about how creepy it was to just follow her without saying anything. But it was not Tommy's cold eyes staring at her in the night air. These were eyes she did not recognize.
"Who the fuck are you?" She spat. She was defenseless, she could only hope the person would be mildly intimidated by her attitude and opt out of commiting sin in the moonlight. "I said who the fuck are you?"
He was not a large man in height or weight, but there was an anger burning within him she could practically see. "You killed my brother." Was all he said and her breath left her. She had been riding a high, unable to see there could be retribution. She was foolish to believe she could murder a man and have no consequences.
"I did." There was no remorse in her voice, nor in her heart. Wicked men deserved wicked ends.
"You bitch." He closed the gap between them quickly, and she barely had time to register his size before his fist swung out and hit her in the stomach. It felt as though every particle of air she had ever allowed her body to have was stripped from her. A strange weeze took place of her breathing and she fell to the ground desperate for air.
"You killed my fucking brother for nothing," He yelled at her kicking her in her ribs again and again. She could feel herself slipping into oblivion and fought to stay aware. To give in would be to die. She threw her hands in front of her, trying her best to guard her face against the blows. It was no use. She was becoming nothing but a pile of blood and bone under the man's foot.
"Not for nothing," She struggled out. If she was going to die, she would die defiant.
Her words brought forth a fresh assault and she groaned into the pain. How could a human body take this much violence.
"For what then? What did my brother die for?" His voice was no longer angry, instead a broken, pained voice had taken its spot. To lose a brother was a terrible thing, but his pain was not enough to culminate a feeling of regret within her. She was dying, she could feel it within herself. Her spirit spoke for the fight, but her body was willing out.
"For him," She whispered, a vision of Tommy dancing in her mind before the world went black.
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Tommy was in a fitful sleep, unable to shake the demons torturing his mind. He was once again in the tunnels, looking down at a man no older than himself drenched in blood. There was no helping him despite his cries. He cried for God, the King, and his Mother, none of which Tommy could give him. Someone behind him whispered a prayer, saving the soul of the lost, or so they hoped.
"Keep going," Tommy told the men around him. He was responsible for making sure they went home alive, he could not risk their lives for the one he knew would not. The others sang songs under their breath, or prayed as they went on, trying their best to wipe the horrors from their eyes. It would never work. He could pluck his eyes from his skull and see them still. Others spoke of home and love, these ones he ignored. He could not think of things like that in places like this. And he could not love when he was so terribly wounded. His mind was somewhere else now, deep in the tunnels, and he was not sure he was going to make it out of them, even if his body did.
A loud shot rang out from behind them and Tommy tried his best to peer into the darkness, desperate to see who was attacking. "It's the Germans!" Someone shouted and they all rushed forward, desperate to get away from the threat to somewhere they could fire back. War was all tactic, killing was all personal, and he would kill as many people as he had to to keep his men safe. Every German dropped would be a pock on his soul, but his men would be safe.
Shots rang out all around them in the dark. The tunnels reeked of desperation, desperation to win, or desperation to get out. To get out. There was an exit nearby, one on their side. A sigh of relief washed over him. Safety. As much safety as could be granted in the throes of war.
"The ladder!" He called out to his men, happy to notice they were closer than they thought. Within minutes his men were clamoring to safety. "When you get out there keep your wits about you boys," He yelled to them each as he hoisted them further up the rungs of salvation. When they were all up he began his own climb, quickly and stealthy. He had not even heard the shot when it rang out, piercing his chest. Of course he would be taken here, he had killed. He did not deserve salvation.
He woke in a sweat, reaching instinctively for the pipe loaded with opium beside his bed. It would help him make peace with the demons, whisper in their language to let him sleep, they could return tomorrow. They would begin the takeover of Finnigan's pubs officially tomorrow, he needed as much sleep as possible.
A soft knock sounded on his door, so soft at first he was not sure that it had happened at all. Shortly after though it came again, stronger this time. "Thomas!" Polly shouted to him. It was not like her to come to him at night unless his terrors became too loud, but since the opium that was rare. They could all sleep again.
His body groaned in protest as he rose from the bed and crossed the room. "Thomas, please." He could hear it then, the anxiety in her voice that he so rarely heard from his aunt. She was proud, and hardened. Anxiety was not a coat she often wore. A bubble of fear rose within him. His thoughts went to each of his brothers, fearing their safety. He pulled open the door to face his aunt whose face was pale.
"What's happened Polly?"
"It's Freya," Polly rushed out, pulling him from his room, allowing him no time to get dressed properly before they rushed into the street. A small crowd was surrounding something on the ground, a small bundle covered in blood. No, not a bundle. A dress. The dress.
"Is she dead?" His voice spoke of indifference that his heart did not hold. He did not know how to be anything other than the machine he had become in war. A stronger man would rush and see for himself. But for all his strengths, that one failed him.
John rushed forward, sobriety interlacing with distress on his features. "I woke up in the pub and I was walking back and I came upon her. The ambulance is on the way," He spoke with optimism. A thing Tommy could appreciate.
"She's strong." Tommy said, making his way back into his home, shutting the door with a soft click. Back to the door he shrank down to his knees, struggling to clear his mind. His family was distraught, the small girl had made her way into their lives, twisting their fingers until they were wrapped around hers. They all loved her, truly loved her. If she was lost, things would escalate to a point that Tommy was not sure he would be able to control.
If she was lost. The thought plagued him as he made his way back to the room, ignoring the commotion outside as the ambulance took her away to an uncertain future. He did not pray, for his prayers would not be answered, but he hoped against all odds that Freya would live, and if she did he would never part from him again. Brothers and barmaids be damned, he would have her.